


Cop Car

by Debesmanna



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Castiel uses airquotes unnecessarily, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fallen Castiel, Getting Arrested, Human Castiel, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, Parent John Winchester, Philosophical Musing, Police, Sassy Sam Winchester, Teenage hooligans, Teenagers, Young Castiel, Young Castiel/Young Dean Winchester, Young Dean Winchester, Young Love, Young Sam Winchester, planes, so many classic rock references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2172411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Debesmanna/pseuds/Debesmanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well we’re not hiding a monster corpse, and we don’t even have any booze. So nah, we’re good.”</p><p>The grim faced pair of policewomen topping the hill and stalking towards them don’t look “good” to Castiel, but admittedly he has little basis for comparison. </p><p>“What about the weapons compartment in the trunk?”</p><p>“I won’t tell if you don’t.”</p><p>-AU, Destiel, teenage hooligans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can't Drive 55

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arthur](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Arthur).



> This one is for my friend Arthur, who texted me one night saying, “I know you don’t listen to country, but this song is super Destiel…” I listened, I gave a mischievous grin, and this fic is what happened. So you can thank/blame Arthur.
> 
> The song is “Cop Car” by Keith Urban. Other songs referenced are “I Can’t Drive 55” by Sammy Hagar, “Time Is On My Side” by the Rolling Stones, and “Water” by The Who, because apparently I can’t stop myself from making classic rock references when Dean is around.
> 
> Special thanks to StellarRequiem, who became my Dean muse when he was being difficult and without whom the dialogue in this story would be much less awesome!

PART ONE—CASTIEL 

Castiel rolls the window down to greet the baked earth smell of summer. He loves that even on still, hot days, when the sky looks blue enough to drown in and every leaf and blade of grass stands at rest, the Impala can give him his own personal wind. As Dean begins to sing along with the radio about how he “can’t drive 55,” they accelerate. If Castiel closes his eyes, he can imagine that they’re exceeding the speed limit not only of human laws but of human possibility. The hum to a roar of planes taking off in the distance becomes frequencies that are closed to Castiel’s human bones, ancient vibrations that he almost feels in vanished wings.

Dean’s soft laugh brings him back to himself. He is not ageless and multidimensional; like Dean, Castiel is seventeen and human. He sits up straight, squinting at Dean through the rush of daylight, and it’s only then that he realizes he had been sprawled in his seat with his shoulder and head hanging out the window.

“Aw, I didn’t mean for you to stop,” Dean says. He sits with one elbow out the window and one hand on the wheel. Castiel used to scold him for his relaxed driving posture and disregard for their lives, to which Dean had responded that his baby could practically handle herself on these long, straight stretches and Cas should just “chill.”

“Stop what?”

“Hanging out the window like dog.”

“I don’t—” Castiel begins, but stops himself. He sees Sam Winchester’s face in his mind, head tilted to the side, projecting the infinite wisdom and patience unique to thirteen year olds. _When Dean says something you don’t understand,_ says Sam, _take a minute to think about it before you say anything. He’s confusing you_ on purpose _because he’s a dick._

Dean grins, shifting his hands to steer with his left while moving his right to Castiel’s knee, and suddenly Castiel remembers. He had sat in the back of a barely functional truck that Dean termed “one of Uncle Bobby’s rolling turds” as Bobby and Dean traded insults. Dean’s thumb rubbed soothing circles on Castiel’s knee, reassuring him that the banter was affectionate rather than malicious. But at the memory’s edge Bobby’s Rottweiler ignored them all, head out the window and tongue flapping, utterly joyous as he basked in the hundreds of scents that their momentum carried to him.

“The comparison’s not unfounded,” he admits, covering Dean’s hand with his own. Dean snorts a laugh, flipping his hand and lacing their fingers together.

“Am I really so amusing?” Castiel doesn’t mind making Dean laugh. In fact, he quite enjoys being responsible for the squint at the corners of Dean’s eyes and for the dimple on his cheek that appear when he laughs. But he likes to _understand._

“No. Well yeah, sort of.” Dean hums and turns down the radio, leaving the car alarmingly driverless for a moment. That Dean would rather let go of his baby than Castiel is a compliment of the highest order; Dean and the Impala have a special relationship that Castiel can never hope to understand.

“It’s more that I like seeing you so relaxed,” says Dean. “Like we finally got that stick out of your ass.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I know that the state of my ass is of great concern to you, Dean,” he says, succeeding in pulling another laugh out of him. He leans back in his seat again, smiling. The moment of quiet, the wheels on pavement, the heavy air, and Dean’s hand in his are something like peace.

“Hey Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Can I ask you something?” Dean licks his lips, nervous.

“You just did,” says Castiel.

“That joke is older than sin, Cas.”

Frowning, Castiel says, “I assure you that it isn’t.”

Dean winces in the beat of silence. It’s an amazing human skill, transforming the mood of the quiet in only a moment.

Castiel sighs. “What do you want to know?”

With a deep, fortifying inhale and the soft movement of his thumb drawing circles on Castiel’s hand, Dean says, “Why do you always wanna go see the planes?”

Anticipating the question doesn’t stop Castiel from tensing. But he doesn’t pull away. It’s been two years, nearly three. Such a short span of cosmic time is plenty long enough in human terms to gather his words, and so they come easier than Castiel had expected.

“I miss my wings the most,” he says. _Rip off the Band-Aid quick_ , he remembers Dean saying to a distressed and sniffling Sam once, not long after they had met. He pauses at Dean’s surprised inhale, and feels the first stirrings of panic when Dean lets go of his hand. It has been a long and complicated dance with Dean and his family, negotiating Castiel’s status as a supernatural creature. When Dean begins to rub at the space on his back between his shoulder blades, Castiel relaxes, closes his eyes, and continues.

“I can understand why you don’t like human flight. You’re made to walk. I remember when walking like you did was something amazing. You could go all day in the sun and never tire, walk your quarry down with patience rather than speed. Uriel was particularly impressed. I don’t know when he lost that wonder.” Castiel shakes his head to dislodge that train of thought. This is about him, not one of the many brothers and sisters that he turned his back on. “But you could run, if it was needed. You could swim. You invented ways to move faster over the land, over and under the water, and I was awed where others disdained. What was left but the skies?”

“The moon?” Dean jokes.

“The heavens.” Castiel says. He pauses, unsure, his words tangling on his tongue, possibilities budding faster than he can prune them. When the sky is the limit, losing one’s way is all too easy.

Gently directing him, Dean says, “Okay, so you hung out on Earth for forever, and we invented some cool shit.”

Castiel shakes his head. “It’s not what you made, Dean. It’s what you _thought_. If a fish dreamed that it could run, and dreamed hard enough to create possibility, and turned the possible into the real, would that not be amazing to you?”

“…I’m picturing a fish with robot legs over its tail, which is really friggin’ weird. But yeah. I guess.”

Opening his eyes, Castiel dares to look at Dean. Dean glances between the road and Castiel, eyes soft and curious. The corners of his mouth lift in a barely-there smile at Castiel’s attention. Castiel smiles wryly. “What do you think you look like to us, strapped into wood and cloth wings or inside impossibly airborne metal flying machines?”

Dean laughs. “Fishes with robot legs, monkeys with robot wings. Got it.”

“You’re an ape, Dean, not a monkey,” Castiel corrects absently. “As you call them, ‘robot wings,’ are not true wings. Planes make me sad because they remind me that humans will never experience flight as angels do, and now that I am among you, neither will I. And I love planes because they exist in defiance of rational design.”

There is so much more to say. There is so much more that Castiel _is_ , and knows, and feels. There is so much that he is losing, that’s slipping the confines of his newly human brain.

Dean responds to his frustrated huff with a shushing noise. “Take your time, buddy.”

On the radio, a man sings “ _Time is on my side, yes it is._ ” Castiel can no longer tell happenstance from sign, a song from divine advice, but it’s better to err on the side of caution. He recaptures Dean’s hand in his. Dean begins to sing under his breath, slightly off-key and perfect. Far in the distance, the watery shimmer of a heat-mirage gives way to asphalt, and the turn off to an ill-used dirt road.

 Castiel says, “The planes are me.”

Dean’s sideways grin reappears, and he says, “Rebel with a cause.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“That’s what you need me for. I’ll do the thinking, you sit and look pretty.”

Punching Dean in the arm accomplishes nothing, but it seems the appropriate response.

They approach the dirt road. It’s miles too soon to leave the highway, miles before the convenience store parking lot where they sit and drink slushies and turn their tongues unnatural colors, but Dean slows their reckless forward momentum.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asks.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Do you not want to watch the planes anymore?” Castiel doesn’t mean for his voice to sound so small.

Dean shushes him. “We’re watchin’ the planes, baby. You’ll like this, just wait.”

“Like what?”

Rolling his eyes, Dean says, “It’s a _surprise_ Cas. Take a hint.”

Watching for deception in Dean’s face has always been hard for Castiel, even when he was newly fallen and possessed lingering traces of his angelic senses, but try as he might he can detect no trick, no lingering resentment of Castiel’s nature.

“I dislike surprises,” he says.

Taking his eyes off the road for a heart-stopping moment, Dean kisses him on the cheek. “You’ll like this one.”

“As you say,” Castiel grumbles, a light flush on his cheeks.

They stir the dust, disturbing browning weeds that had begun to grow in the tire ruts at the center of the road. Neat rows of young corn turn to rambling prairie grasses, and glimpses of faded but sturdy sheds turn to tumbled down wood heaps. The heat of late afternoon breaks piece by piece behind the hills. The roar of the planes gets louder and louder, more and more frequent. When they reach a wooden fence with a rusted metal gate and a “No Trespassing” sign, Dean slows to a stop.

“This is not inspiring any great confidence in your ‘surprise,’” Castiel says, eyeing the “No Trespassing” sign as Dean might eye a vegetable that had somehow found its way onto his plate.

Dean is half out of the car already. “Will you stop with the finger quotes?” is his only reply as he gets out and goes to the gate. With a little tugging at the rusted over latch and a little kicking at the weeds in the path which prevent the gate from swinging open freely, Dean pries it wide enough for the Impala to pass through.

“Do laws mean nothing at all to you?” Castiel says, arms crossed firmly over his chest and glaring at the side of Dean’s head as Dean avoids his eyes, focusing instead on the road ahead as he restarts the car.

“If Dad wanted a law-abiding citizen, he shouldn’t have taught me to stand lookout on hunts before I could tie my shoes.”

It’s not long after the gate that an even smaller road opens up to the left, no more than two tire tracks in the grass, and Dean follows it to the top of a hill.

When they top the rise and Dean kills the engine, Castiel’s jaw falls open in surprise.

“Oh.”

“I told you you’d like it.” Dean’s smile is audible. He tugs Castiel’s hand to pull him out of the car, Castiel fumbling with his seatbelt and his stunned silly feet in equal measure.

The runway ends directly below them. When a plane rolls into view from the distant airport, its rumble is nearly deafening. Castiel can see the exact moment that the beautiful, ungainly, impossible machine leaves the ground, the moment that it breaches the realm of potentialities and takes flight. He cranes his head back to watch it as it soars directly above them, its wind rushing over them in a blast of heat and noise, before he turns around and tracks it until only its white exhaust trail marks its passing.

Dean’s arms come around him from behind, and Dean nuzzles his nose against the hinge of Castiel’s jaw. “Do you like it?” he says shyly.

“How did you know about this place?”

He hums, his breath buzzing pleasantly against Castiel’s skin. “I like to drive.”

Every new hideaway of Dean’s, every secret road and field and junkyard offered, is a glimpse of that bright soul he used to see with his angel eyes. Castiel turns around in his arms and kisses him gently on the lips. “Thank you, Dean.”

Never one to accept a compliment with grace, Dean only chuckles and kisses Castiel in return.

The evening creeps up on them in a series of quiet kisses. After the car cools they sit on her hood. Castiel remembers when Dean used to leave a foot wide gap of black paint between them rather than tugging at Castiel’s waist until he is practically sitting on Dean’s lap. This way traps the fading summer heat between them, sweat catching at all points of contact, but Castiel prefers it to empty space. When the planes pass overhead, leaving and arriving, Castiel gives them his absolute attention. In between, Dean’s kisses deepen, limbs entwining further with Castiel’s. He registers the slow fall into night as points of light materializing on wings and tails.

“Look up,” Dean murmurs into his ear.

“As opposed to what I’ve been doing?”

“Just shut up and look at the damn stars.”

Limited as he is by eyes and atmosphere, the stars are still endless. Castiel lays his head on Dean’s shoulder. If he could, he would stay here forever.

“I know all of their names.”

“You do not.”

Castiel is naming stars, feeding them to Dean on whispers between kisses, when a shroud of red and blue light and a wailing sound from the bottom of the hill cracks open their sanctuary.

Dean grins, snaking his arm around Castiel’s waist and squeezing. “It ain’t a party till the cops break it up.”

“The—Dean!” Castiel gasps, grabbing Dean’s arm tightly, “We’re going to get arrested!”

“Looks like it,” says Dean cheerfully. His wandering hand is teasing the edge of Castiel’s shirt. “Or we could run for it. It’d be funny.”

Castiel only stares.

“If you leave your mouth open like that you’re gonna catch flies.”

Castiel’s mouth snaps shut. Dean is at ease, his posture relaxed and his usual half-grin in place. “You are unconcerned.”

“Well we’re not hiding a monster corpse, and we don’t even have any booze. So nah, we’re good.”

The grim faced pair of policewomen topping the hill and stalking towards them don’t look “good” to Castiel, but admittedly he has little basis for comparison.

“What about the weapons compartment in the trunk?”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

He realizes that Dean is still trying to worm his way under his shirt.

“Dean! Stop that. It’s undignified.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining five minutes ago.”

“Five minutes ago we were _alone_.” Castiel tugs Dean’s hand off and scoots a few inches away so that he is no longer sitting in his boyfriend’s lap in the presence of two officers of the law.

As the policewomen approach Dean’s side of the car, Dean tips an imaginary hat to them. “Officers.”

The taller policewoman frowns. Castiel is unable to read the expression of the second in the flashing lights coming from the bottom of the hill, but when she speaks, her voice is dry rather than angry, which is encouraging.

“I expect you’re the ‘dangerous strangers in a mobster car creeping on back roads’ that Mrs. Pearson called in about?”

As is his custom in the presence of females of a certain age, Dean flashes his most charming smile. “Can’t be, ma’am. Mobsters ain’t classy enough to ride with a beauty like this.” Dean pats the hood of his car reassuringly.

“Don’t you be flippant with her, boy,” her partner snaps. She has a frazzled edge, wisps of blonde hair escaping from underneath her hat. Castiel sends a quick prayer to Anna for patience, although for the policewoman or for himself, he isn’t sure.

“Dean,” Castiel warns, putting a hand on Dean’s arm. Dean only winks at him and shakes him off.

“I don’t joke about my baby,” Dean says, the picture of sincerity.

Any further repartee is lost in the roar of a plane landing. Since it’s his last before he and Dean face possible imprisonment, Castiel takes a moment to watch and let his stomach settle in time with the bump of wheels touching down on the runway. Then, before Dean can make further use of his talents for annoyance, Castiel takes a calming breath and intervenes.

“My name is Castiel, and this is Dean. May we discuss our criminal status back on the main road, away from the noise?”

Dean laughs. Castiel elbows him in the ribs.

The shorter officer cuts off her partner with a similar gesture before she can speak. “I’m Officer Rodriguez and this is Officer Vogel. We’ll talk now.” She gives Officer Vogel a narrow-eyed look that Castiel recognizes as communicating “calm down.”

“Whatever,” says Dean, jumping down from the hood. Castiel sighs. He feels an intense sympathy for Officer Rodriguez as he takes his place at Dean’s side. “What did you ladies want to talk about?”

“For starters, the lock that you broke to illegally enter someone else’s land,” says Officer Vogel.

“That was my fault,” says Castiel, meeting the officer’s eyes despite the thrumming of his nerves. She is human, and not a physical threat, so he has to keep himself under control. “Dean wanted to show me the planes.”

“But I was the one that broke the lock,” Dean is quick to add. He glares at Castiel and hisses under his breath, “What are you doing?”

“The truth is as good a story as any,” Castiel replies at a normal volume. To the officers, he adds, “Dean may have broken the lock and driven the car, but I was his accomplice, so I’m equally responsible.”

Dean groans. “Cas, stop talking.”

When Castiel meets Dean’s eyes he expects to find irritation, or worry. Castiel is incriminating himself, shifting the blame off of Dean when Dean would try to take it all. Instead, he sees battle-readiness. Dean is almost vibrating with anticipation at the chaos. Usually when this happens they are in actual mortal danger, so Castiel has never had the time to savor the way that Dean’s muscles loosen in anticipation of striking, that he shifts his stance to draw strength from the Earth, the freedom in his eyes.

Castiel couldn’t talk even if he wanted to. He is breathless. Whatever Dean sees in his face only increases his good humor, and he winks.

“Yes, that’ll do,” drawls Officer Rodriguez, and Castiel regains normal autonomic functioning with a deep breath.

At the same time, Officer Vogel says, “You came way out here, on service roads at night, because you wanted to ‘watch planes.’” Castiel hears the air quotes. He supposes that plane watching is not a normal human pastime and is therefore cause for suspicion, but he can’t explain his reasoning without revealing his status as an angel.

“Cas likes planes,” Dean says, smirking. This does nothing to assuage the officer’s concerns, judging by the glance that she exchanges with her partner.

“What do they think we’ve been doing?” Castiel whispers.

“Probably pot or something,” Dean responds.

“Is that what normal teenage hooligans do?”

“You mean the ones that don’t dig up graves for kicks? Yeah.”

Then Castiel remembers something else that normal teenage hooligans do that might lend credibility to their story.

“And also Dean’s brother told us to stop having sex where he can hear us,” Castiel says. A choking sound to his left is Dean’s laughter, and Castiel smiles.

“That’s quite enough out of you,” snaps Officer Vogel. She then has them undergo a series of balance and coordination exercises intended to determine their level of intoxication. It’s entirely possible that she would have let Dean drive them back to the police station under his own power if he hadn’t pushed her an inch too far by standing close, inhaling the scent of cigarette smoke that clung to her, and asking for a light.

As she hustles them to the police car Dean murmurs to Castiel, “Must’ve hit a nerve.” Officer Rodriguez only sighs as Officer Vogel handcuffs them and Dean declares “kinky” and wiggles his eyebrows at Castiel.

Once in the car, Dean wheedles Officer Rodriguez into cracking the windows. Castiel’s own voice echoes in his memory this time: _I feel trapped in cars._ Dean had said, _Want me to crack a window?_ and Castiel replied _It won’t help,_ but Dean had done it anyway, and it had helped.

Revelations aren’t supposed to occur in the back of a police car. Revelations are holy, are giving oneself over to divine light and purpose and receiving the bliss of command. Castiel has never felt less heavenly than at this moment, listening to the crackle of the police scanner over the music of crickets, smelling of sweat and gasoline and cold wind, and resisting the urge to laugh whenever he and Dean catch each other’s eyes. He has never felt how expansive his human senses can be until the denim and heat of Dean as he hooks his ankle behind Castiel’s calf. The scrape of dirt under their tires rolls to asphalt and low voices fill the front seat and the moon stains Dean’s hair and Castiel receives revelation.

“I love you,” he says.

Dean inhales sharply. He stares at Castiel, eyes wide. When he smiles it’s as though years of pain and anxious love have been pushed away. He laughs.

“Timing, baby. We gotta work on your timing.”

From the front seat, someone snorts back a laugh.

“Oh,” says Cas. “I can see how the back of a police car might not be a suitable place to fall in love.”

Dean laughs again and scoots closer, pressing his side up against Castiel’s.

“I can think of worse,” he says.

Castiel lays his head on Dean’s shoulder and closes his eyes, letting the steady wing-beat of Dean’s pulse take him on down the road.


	2. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is there something you want to tell me, son?”
> 
> _Oh SHIT._ Dean’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. Right now would be an awesome time for a pair of those robot fish legs to get him the fuck out of here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some trivia: "Water" is a The Who song by Pete Townshend which somehow crept into this chapter. It was originally the B-side to the much more well known "Love Reign O'er Me," which I find very appropriate to this story. But seriously Dean, you had to go with "Water" when you thought of Cas? You couldn't pick "Behind Blue Eyes" like a normal person? =p

PART TWO—DEAN

_Easy, Winchester. It’s just a phone. It doesn’t have teeth, or ectoplasm, or tentacles. You dial, it rings._

“You might as well get it over with, kid.”

Dean glares at Rodriguez. She taps her watch, her mouth pinched with boredom and tiredness. It might be the florescent “this-is-a-government-facility” lights, but she looks a little sick, like she hasn’t slept through the night in weeks and can’t hide it under makeup anymore. Whatever fugly’s rolled into town, it’s taking a toll on the men and women in blue. Dean’s glare falls away as guilt takes its place. This woman should be home with her family or in bed, not chasing him and Cas off of airfields.

“Yeah, me and Cas’ll get out of your hair,” he says.

Cas. Cas loves him, and is sitting in a jail cell because of him.

Rodriguez is right. No amount of stalling will make this moment suck any less, and some things in life are unavoidable. Death, taxes, and John Winchester.

Deep breath, chin up, into the fire. On the fifth ring, Dad picks up.

“Winchester,” he answers. His voice is heavy and defeated; he and Sam have been fighting. It’s not the best time to catch him, but it’s better than “about-to-drop-from-exhaustion” or “terminator-mode.”

“Uh. Hi, Dad,” Dean says sheepishly.

Dad sighs. “What did you do?”

“Nobody got hurt!” Dean protests, and then winces. _Great start, Winchester. Smooth._

Deadly calm, John says, “Dean.”

Dean’s shoulders straighten even as his head dips, a toy soldier shamed rather than shouted back into line. As he talks he is met with silence, and in the silence realization grows. How could he have been so stupid? They don’t know what’s killing people in this town, and there he goes wandering off to the middle of nowhere like some jackass in a horror movie.

The phone line crackles and buzzes. A bead of sweat drips between his shoulder blades. When he makes eye contact with Rodriguez she raises her eyebrows, which he interprets as “Is your dad gonna rip you a new one?” He grimaces, and shrugs.

“Dad?” he ventures. The silence is killing him, here.

“This time, Dean. This time nobody got hurt. You know people here are dying. You were reckless, and I’m surprised at you.”

Two parts of him battle. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Sam says, _Where do_ you _get off lecturing_ me _about recklessness?_ But the second voice shouts it down as it occurs to Dean that not only is he the horror movie jackass, he’s the jackass _endangering his boyfriend._

Dean feels three feet tall and still shrinking by the time that Dad says, “You’re seventeen and you’re gonna get up to stupid shit. But I thought that you valued Castiel more than that.”

Now would be a good time for the ground to open up and swallow him.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Dad says. Dean hates later; later means gut-clenching dread. Maybe Dad will go off on him, like he did when Dean forgot to buy orange juice for Sam last week, or maybe he’ll snap and make him do about a million push-ups. Or worse, the sad eyes.

He pushes the nervousness down. He screwed up, and he’ll accept Dad’s punishment, whatever it is. “Yes, sir.”

Dad asks to talk to Rodriguez, which takes all of two minutes, and then she leads Dean back to where Cas is waiting. She warns them, “Don’t get up to anything now that you’re out of handcuffs, cause your dad’ll be here soon and I don’t want to deal with that kind of awkward.”

“Yes ma’am,” Dean says.

Cas tilts his head to the side, which in Cas-speak means “Your behavior is mildly perplexing.” Dean ignores him, pacing rather than sitting down as Rodriguez’s footsteps fade down the hallway.

“That was the perfect opportunity for a witty rejoinder,” says Cas.

Dean smiles at him reflexively, but knows that Cas isn’t fooled. “Yeah, well, even I can’t keep the wit comin’ all the time.”

Cas frowns. Dean counts the seconds between each of Cas’s breaths, slower than a normal person’s. It was weird at first, kind of off putting, but now it makes Dean calm. His breaths slow, and his pacing feet along with them.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“Did… your father say something to you?”

“That’s generally the point of a phone conversation, Cas.”

Cas huffs a frustrated breath, and Dean manages a real smile. Dean sits down next to him on the combo bed and bench unique to a small town lockup.

“Nothing that I didn’t already know,” he says. He can’t quite meet Cas’s eyes. “It was stupid to put you in danger like that.”

“Danger?” Cas says. “From the planes?”

“What? No. From whatever the hell we’re hunting.”

“I don’t remember being in any more danger than usual.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah. _Usual._ ”

He can feel Cas’s eyes on the side of his head, like he’s trying to laser his way in. “Do you make a point of forgetting that I was a soldier of Heaven, millennia old and perfectly capable of taking care of myself?”

“Sure. Remind me: how did you get stuck in your meat-suit again?”

Cas closes the gap between them, leaning against his side. “I understand that my humanity frightens you. It frightens me.” He tucks his head against Dean’s neck so that when he talks, Dean feels his lips against his skin. “But I am what I was made to be, and so trouble will find me whatever I do.”

“The fuck kind of pep talk is this?” Dean says, but also runs his fingers through Cas’s hair, arranging the bed-headed mass into even more outrageous shapes.

Cas ignores him. “It isn’t your responsibility to protect me, Dean. If anything, it’s the other way around.”

Dean’s fingers still. “I don’t need you to protect me.”

“Exactly. Nor I you.” Cas butts his head against Dean’s hand like a cat. “I was enjoying that.”

The scratch of Dean’s nails on Cas’s scalp and the slow sync of their breathing are the only sounds in the cell. Cas presses a single kiss against Dean’s neck, and that’s enough for now. There’s a draft coming from a crack in the ceiling that’s stealing his heat and his arms kind of hurt from when the pissed off cop yanked them to cuff him and who knows what’ll happen when his Dad gets here, but who could remember to hold onto guilt when Cas-the-giant-cat cuddles in closer?

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“Are you planning to introduce me to your father?”

Dean chuckles. “The hell? You know my dad. I know Vogel didn’t rough you up enough for brain damage.”

“I mean, are you going to formally introduce me as your boyfriend?”

“WHAT?”

Cas sits up, regarding Dean with his serious-business frown. “Isn’t that prudent? Considering that my…confession aligns with feelings that you’ve already expressed?”

He stares at Cas for a full five seconds before he has to laugh. Cas’s deepening frown only makes it worse, and it’s a solid minute until Dean can wheeze out, “Have you been reading Sam’s chick lit?”

Crossing his arms, ready to take up the defense, Cas says, “I have been researching. Introduction to the family is a normal rite of passage for a serious relationship. Because I already know your family and Sam knows about our relationship, that leaves your father.”

“Dammit Cas, Are you out of your MIND?”

Cas’s arms uncross and his scowl drops into worry. “Do you think he will take issue?”

“Of course he—” Dean starts. But out of nowhere he remembers Ellen’s sensible voice, the bounce of her ponytail as she slid a plate of burgers and fries across the bar, years back before he’d even dreamed of angels: _If you’re confused about something, kiddo, and your daddy don’t give a straight answer, you come to me. He’s one of the sharpest hunters there is and can tell you about all sorts of different monsters, but sometimes he can’t be bothered keeping tabs on different kinds of people._

“I don’t know,” Dean admits.

“I suppose hunters don’t have a reputation for tolerance,” Cas muses.

“Ya think?”

Before Cas can push at this uncomfortable line of thought, boots clunk down the hall. He and Cas exchange a glance and then stand up, putting the standard foot of distance between them before Dad and Sam come into view. All things considered, that distance makes Dean more uncomfortable than Dad’s stoic expression or Sam’s scowl.

They ride back to the motel in uncomfortable silence. By some unspoken agreement Sam takes shotgun for once, after hissing to Dean, “You couldn’t just make out in a parking lot like _normal_ people?” to which Dean whispers, “Get to first base, _then_ tell me what to do, Samwise.” In the back seat, Cas’s thigh presses against his, but Dean doesn’t dare indulge in surreptitious handholding as his thoughts churn.

It’s stupid. This isn’t a Jane Whatever novel and he doesn’t need his dad’s permission to date Cas. Hell, why does Dad ever have to know? They’ve been fine, so why shouldn’t they continue to be fine as they are?

In the motel Dad turns to Dean, who automatically stands up straighter. There’s no guessing what Dad is thinking this time.

“Castiel,” Dad says.

Cas startles. “Yes sir?”

“I want you and Sam to go to the convenience store and pick us up breakfast for tomorrow. We’re going to get an early start.”

He holds out a twenty to Cas. Cas looks at it as though it’s playing possum, waiting to draw blood, before taking it.

“Alright.”

“I can go by myself,” says Sam.

“Don’t argue with me, Sam,” Dad snaps. He doesn’t get that Sam’s not rebelling against his ex-angel babysitter this time; he’s trying to make sure Dean has backup. But Dean can’t exactly translate right now.

Before Sam can make the crappy situation worse, Dean smirks at him and says, “Chocolate filled donuts, Sammy. Sprinkles are for nerds.”

Cas is the one who answers, “We’ll remember,” before steering Sam away. Sam doesn’t look happy about it, but shuts up this time. At Dean’s reassuring smile, Sam only raises an eyebrow while Cas sighs.

And then the door shuts and it’s just Dean and Dad, staring at each other. _Whelp. Awkward_.

“It won’t happen again, sir,” Dean blurts.

Dad sighs, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. “Sit down, son.”

Dean’s afraid that he’s slipped into an alternate dimension, one in which conversations are longer than “Complete the mission; protect Sammy” and “Yes sir.” When Dean flops onto the nearest bed, Dad sits next to him.

“Dean,” Dad starts. He’s squinting out of the grimy motel window into the flickering streetlight. The whole thing’s a little ominous, like a bad crime movie.

And then the dam breaks. “We need to talk about the situation with you and Castiel.”

Whatever Dean was expecting, that wasn’t it. He clutches the bedspread to keep himself from bolting. “It wasn’t his fault, Dad. It was my stupid idea, and—”

A shadow of amusement turns up Dad’s mouth before he goes serious again and cuts Dean off. “That’s part of it.” And finally, he makes eye contact. “Is there something you want to tell me, son?”

_Oh SHIT._ Dean’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. Right now would be an awesome time for a pair of those robot fish legs to get him the fuck out of here.

_Where you gonna run to?_ Dean snaps his jaw shut. He remembers Cas, dirty and tired and human, planting himself in front of Dean and Sammy like the Devil himself couldn’t move him.

“Yes,” he says.

A beat.

“Well?” Dad raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Dean repeats, willing every stubborn impulse he’s ever had not to fail him now.

“What do you mean, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what, Dean?” Dad growls. If angels weren’t dicks, Dean would be praying now.

“Is this your way of telling me you’re fucking him?”

Dean’s wide-eyed silence must be answer enough, because Dad closes his eyes and rubs at his temples.

“He’s family,” Dean admits, quiet, as though that’ll make the truth easier to carry.

Dad takes a deep breath and lets it out slow, calm as the settled mud of a landslide.

“Dean. I know I raised you to know how to treat a girlfriend with respect, which I suppose applies to a boyfriend too.”

“Of course,” Dean says automatically. _What?_

Dad can’t quite meet his eyes. “Are you being safe?”

“ _Dad!_ ”

“Dean,” he answers, serious as the grave.

Dean hides his face in his hands. “Yeeees.”

“Okay,” Dad says, relief evident on his face that _that_ is a conversation they don’t need to have. Dean knows the feeling.

Dad continues, “You’ll be eighteen soon. And however old Castiel is, it’s definitely old enough.” He winces. “Just don’t tell me any of the details. I don’t need to know.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” says Dean. The knot of terror that was his gut is slowly giving way to a quiet joy.

“How long have you known?”

Dad actually _snorts_. “You’re not that subtle, kiddo.”

He can _breathe._ “Just don’t tell Sammy that. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

When Dad looks at him, sharp and shrewd, Dean understands, and adds, “Sam knows.”

“Of course he does. I expect that whatever secrets you keep from me, it’s impossible to keep anything from Sammy.”

“I don’t keep secrets from you!” Dean protests. “I know better. It’s just…”

“What seventeen year old wants to talk to his old man about love?” Dad says dryly.

Dean can feel his eyes bug out. _Dad said the “L” word. The one that isn’t “lesbians.” Sammy’d be crying big chick-flick tears of pride._

“Dean,” Dad says, with all the gravity of Jupiter.

_Chick-flick moment over._ Unease creeps back in. “Yes, sir?”

“You know what’s out there. You’ve seen it, fought it with your own hands. You’ve protected Sammy from it, seen it almost kill him more than once.”

Dean goes cold all over. He nods.

“And now there’s Castiel. He may be older and wilier than a thirteen year old, but you’ve seen how he needs protecting.”

Dean can’t take his eyes from his knees.

“If Castiel is your Mary, son, then it’s up to you to keep him safe.”

_Or else._ Dean can feel the flames cracking his skin and tearing his life apart.

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean whispers.

Dad puts a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll pick up the Impala tomorrow, first thing,” he says. Then he’s clearing weapons off of the army cot, making room for Dean to sleep.

By the time that Cas and Sammy get back Dean’s lying down, back to the room, trying to keep his mind out of the fire.

“Dean?” Sammy says softly.

Before Dean can decide if he has the energy to roll over and reply, if he can possibly look Sam in the eye, Cas says, “Will you give us a minute, Sam?”

_Thank God. Or somebody._

The cot groans as Cas sits behind him.

“Is this one of those situations where it would be imprudent to offer you physical comfort?”

A tiny smile breaks through. “Knock yourself out.”

Cas’s fingers run through his hair. Dean can hear his deep, slow breathing.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says.

“Don’t be,” says Cas.

From somewhere in the room comes the murmur of Dad and Sam’s voices, and they’re not on the edge of a fight for once. Everyone that Dean loves is safe in these walls. Slowly, his breathing deepens and syncs with Cas’s.

Dean rolls over and looks up into the blue of Cas’s eyes. _We need water, good, good water…_

“Stay.”

“Yes.”

As Cas settles next to Dean, the two of them wedged in tight on the cot, Sam ventures over.

He hesitates. “We got chocolate.”

Dean grins. “But what about the spinach so you can grow up big and strong?”

Sam socks him on the shoulder, but he’s grinning too.

Night settles on them like the slow strum of an acoustic guitar. The mini-fridge hums in the corner, and Sammy snores, and Dad shifts restlessly. Cas winds an arm around Dean’s waist, and rubs gentle circles into his stomach. Dean settles back into him, and stays.


End file.
